Torrent of Darkness: A Story of the Highwayman
by illui
Summary: The last thing steadfast, left-brain Liz wants to do is write twenty pages criticizing an early nineteenth-century poem. But what will happen when the world of Alfred Noyes' "The Highwayman" comes to her? Ch. 1 of 3.
1. Chapter 1

"She's evil!"

Gemma ignored me, busy thumbing through our English assignment. I slammed my book on the table, fuming.

She rolled her eyes. "So she'd a bad teacher. They happen. Get over it."

"But twenty pages, Gem! She's insane." I flopped into a chair, trying to look desperate and defeated. Gemma would usually give in and help if I looked pitiful enough.

It was mid-afternoon, _après _school, the last bit of sun coming in pink swatches onto the kitchen table. Gemma and I had been meeting at my house and organizing our homework together since we were eight, and have yet to fail any of our classes. She had four piles set up on the table, in categories of "Ongoing", "Due next week," "Due this week", and "Panic." I threw Ms. Mace's assignment into the "Panic" pile.

With a sigh, Gemma removed the paper and gave me a look. Most people don't have Gemma pegged as someone who could scare you with a look- she's even shorter than I am- but she could, and did.

"Liz," she said, "just pick a poem and read it. Then we'll do the assignment. Okay?"

I pouted, but mumbled, "Okay."

Gemma shoved the book at me, and I wandered into the living room. It's hard to look good compared to someone like Gemma, a full Swiss bombshell with a rosebud mouth. I could test the scientific method on whether or not boys are really more attracted to gorgeous blondes, using Gemma as an independent variable, and come out with a wild and raucous "yes."

Now, it's not like I have a bad body or anything, but I am about as un-blonde as it gets. My hair comes from my mom- one long, unbroken sheet of red-black, long dark eyelashes and brows that cannot be made dainty by all the tweezers in the known universe. This might not be too bad if I had dazzling blue eyes peeking seductively from beneath, but no. Mine are black, just like the hair. And even this could be dealt with if I was dark, like Catherine Zeta-Jones, only I am not. Truth is, I am whiter that 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and no matter what tanning bed or lotion I use, all I end up with is varying degrees of boiled lobster and orange smoothie.

I flopped onto the couch and sifted through the pages of the book. Tennyson… boring. Poe… depressing. Blake… incomprehensible. Dickenson… meh. Give me a function to graph or a quadratic equation to solve and I am unstoppable. Not so much with literature. Ms. Mace's class is the bane of my junior year, which I had actually planned to enjoy after the agony of being a sophomore.

On page 451, I noticed my nail polish was chipping. I also noticed the title of the poem I had just lost a chip of "Just Pink About It" on.

"The Highwayman," I said to myself. "Huh."

"By Alfred Noyes," said Gemma, not looking up. "Nineteen-oh-six. Good pick."

"I didn't pick anything," I said. I almost shut the book, but the first stanza caught my eye. Something about torrents of darkness and ghostly galleons. _Okay, _I thought, _it gets one shot. If I'm not impressed by page two, I quit._

After page two and a half, I had finished and was looking for more. Gemma saw me and laughed.

"That good, huh?"

"It was all right," I lied. So maybe I'm a sucker for all that doomed romance BS. Sue me. I didn't think they knew how to write interesting poetry back then- usually it was all about Grecian urns and winter paths and other stuff I'd never seen. Just a lot of inaccessible phrasing plus bitchy teachers who want you to memorize the correct spelling of onomatopoeia. Even though I liked the poem, I was dreading having to write twenty pages about the themes and whether or not the phrasing followed iambic pentameter.

"Hey, space cadet." Gemma threw a wad of paper at my head. "I gotta go soon."

I sat up. "Now? But I need help."

"You should have spent less time whining and more time working. I have dance class in fifteen minutes." She started packing up her things. When she reached her hand into her backpack, she paused, blinking. Then, withdrew a little rose-colored box, taped shut.

"Oh, yeah," she said, a far away look in her blue eyes. "I forgot. Dad and I went to the geological society fair in Denver and I saw this."

Gemma's dad was always doing cool stuff with her and her brothers, like fairs and concerts. She claimed it was because he had all this guilt over the divorce. I figured she was right, since my parents were blissfully married and we never went anywhere.

She handed it to me. "I don't know why, but I thought you'd want it."

I took it and slit the tape with my finger. Under the lid was a thin silver necklace, and at the end, a charm with a brilliant blue stone.

Lifting it up to the dying light, it shimmered and flashed. "What is it?" I asked.

"I don't know." She had almost finished packing. "Some kind of paste or semiprecious whatever. Who can tell?"

"It's pretty," I said, hypnotized by the impossible color. Like Venus in the early morning.

"Glad you like it," said Gemma with a smile. She put her thumb and pinkie up against her ear. "Call me?"

"Uh-huh," I said, not really listening. Gemma shook her head and left through the garage. When I heard her go, I slipped the chain around my neck, sliding the charm so it sat just right on my collar. The light was almost gone, and I still had homework to do. Yawning, I wandered back to the kitchen table. First thing to do was make an outline of that damn poem and pick out the main elements, whatever those were. I leaned my chin in my hand. It was going to be a long-ass night.

#

I woke up with my hand around Gemma's necklace, and knew immediately something was wrong.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Like a compost heap masked with cheap potpourri. That was when I realized the stink was coming from me. I shot upright, staring around a room that was most definitely not mine.

The walls were white and powdery, not the sponged-on purple I had done them in last summer. My computer desk, lamp, dresser, bookcase, and daisy-shaped throw rug were all absent, replaced with the bed I was in, a washstand with jars of powder and perfume, and a little desk-thing with a candlestick on it, oozing melted wax. I blinked and blinked. If my brain had been a computer, it would have blue-screened. _Does not process._

My legs scratched like sandpaper on the duvet. I rucked up the nightgown and looked at them. They were covered in hair, soft and downy. My legs haven't been hairy since I was eleven.

The more I explored, the more I found. Apparently, I had never shaved an inch of my body, washed my hair, cleaned my fingernails or brushed my teeth. I smelled. I itched. I was sure I had some kind of parasite. What in the name of Pythagoras was going on?

I tumbled out of bed and dashed to the window. It had shutters, no glass, and when I threw them open, I looked out onto a view I could never have imagined seeing outside of a TV screen.

The yard had actual chickens wandering around in it, pecking and strutting. To my left was something that looked suspiciously like a stable, and beyond the gate was a dirt road, a line of trees, and beyond that, rolling moors stretching into the misty horizon. No street lamps, no hint of cars, electricity, or even the most basic plumbing anywhere, unless you counted the hand pump in the corner by the chickens.

Downstairs- was there a downstairs?- I heard voices. Without stopping to think about whether the owners of those voices were friendly, I opened the door and skidded out into the hallway. It looked like some kind of old-time inn, like in the Lord of the Rings (the only book I've ever read voluntarily) but smellier. There were stairs, and I could hear the voices drifting up them. I climbed down as fast as my oversized nightgown would allow, and emerged in what any idiot could immediately recognize as a bar.

A chubby guy stood behind it, a filthy towel over his shoulder, puttering between about a dozen people dressed like they'd never gotten the "it's not 1776" memo. One or two of them appeared to be employed. Either that, or they liked cleaning out tankards. Everyone spoke with tony English accents, and having been to enough Renaissance Faires to know the difference, I knew they weren't faking.

The chubby guy noticed me standing there with my jaw on the floor, and smiled. He had a squidgy red face, like a tomato.

"Ah, there's my slugabed of a daughter," he said. Then, the smile fell. "Good heavens, Bess, how are you attired?"

Bess?

And did he just call me daughter?

No way. My dad is skinny and nerdy and has every book ever written by Carl Sagan. This guy is chunky and looks like he couldn't even spell "cosmos." Where were mom and dad and Gemma? Where was I? Make that when. This is most definitely a where/when situation.

_Okay, Liz, think. What did you eat last night? Whopper, fries, diet Pepsi. Nothing there. Did someone slip me something? Oh my God, am I dead? I died and went to a dumb poem._

"I am never eating another Whopper as long as I live," I said weakly. The dude who said he was my father looked at me like I was flicking boogers at the customers.

"What rubbish you talk. And wandering about in your bedclothes like a wastrel! If I didn't know better, I'd say the Devil himself has gotten ahold of you."

The barmaid gasped and crossed herself, earning a glare from Mr. Dad that could have melted glass.

Mr. Dad spun me around and booted me up the stairs. "Away, and do not return until you have made yourself decent."

At the top of the stairs, I shook myself. Ouch.

I wandered back into what I guess was my room and collapsed on the bed. Bounced a little, knocked on the wall and the baseboard. It sure felt real. So that meant I'm either dead, crazy, kidnapped by Revolutionary War reenactors, or some combination thereof. None of those options appealed to me, although under other circumstances the kidnapping might have been cool.

I heard a knock at the door, and a pudgy woman came in with a gown draped over her arm. She smiled at me, showing the nastiest teeth I had ever seen outside of a Halloween catalogue.

"Morning, miss," she said cheerfully. "Shall I help you dress?"

I cringed.

"Uh, actually, I've been dressing myself since I was-"

She tutted and laid the dress on the bed. "Peace, miss. Arms up."

Obviously protesting wasn't going to get me anywhere, so I just sighed and put my arms over my head. I felt the nightgown come unlaced and swoosh over my head, immediately replaced by a thin slip. I glanced at the dress on the bed. It was actually pretty in an old-fashioned way, made out of some kind of dark blue material with little flounces at the sleeves and a low-cut neckline. My interest in the dress left me in a rush when Maid Lady tried to squeeze me into an honest-to-God whalebone stay.

"Peace, I say," Maid Lady said when I jumped about ten feet, "else you send your old Hannah to the surgeon."

"Right," I squeaked, "can't you just loosen it up a little?"

Old Hannah ignored me, and in the space of fifteen minutes I was dressed, pinned, pinched and laced like a baby doll into itchy stockings, hoops, petticoats, shoes, gown, stomacher and a froofroo cap that made me look like I was about to take a shower, which was the one thing I desperately wanted. By the time Hannah sat back, I couldn't breathe lower than my sternum, my feet hurt, I was soaked in sweat and one look at the dress told me I would be walking sideways through a lot of doors.

Hannah rose and brushed herself off, smiling at her handiwork. "Shall I empty your chamber pot?"

I blinked. "My wha-huh?"

Hannah leaned over and pulled what looked like a porcelain soup tureen out from under the bed. It took me a second to figure out what it was, which was right about when the "ick" factor set in.

"Oh, nasty!" I clapped my hand over my mouth. "Oh my God, I am so sorry, you don't have to do that."

Hannah gave me the same look I'd been getting all morning. "Mercy, your father spoke the truth when he said you'd gone mad. Pray, tell your Hannah what ails you?"

I sighed. Why did they insist on talking in vintage Shakespearian speech impediment? "Can you keep a secret?"

Immediately, Hannah's small eyes lit up. "I, share a confidence?" She winked at me. "Why, I'll not breathe a word. Tell me."

I took a deep breath. _Here goes. _"Okay. First of all, this isn't just some figment of my imagination, right? I mean, you're not just a dream or something."

Hannah considered this, then broke into laughter. _Man, she has some nasty-ass breath._

"Oh, Lord, I ain't been in the dreams of any living soul since I was a maid like you," she cackled, "and what dreams the lads had of me then, t'be sure!"

Oh-kay. TMI.

I thought hard. If I just came right out and asked what year it was, she would definitely think I was batshit. So, I opted for a more subtle route.

"So," I said. "How's that revolution in France going? I hear it's getting pretty bloody."

As I'd feared, Hannah gave me that you're-crazy look again. "Revolution? In France? Perish the thought. Why, King George- God save him- can't barely keep the colonists from making a ruckus, much less any powdered Frenchmen."

_Oh, fudge._

"Excuse me," I said, and dodged past Hannah out the door.

Resolving not to let anyone stop me, I ran down the stairs and outside, knocking over several astonished patrons on the way, not stopping until I reached the stable. The door was open, and in the musty insides I could see a boy maybe ten years my senior, shoveling out the stalls.

"Hey," I said. He jumped and stared at me. The look seemed to fit- hollow eyes, pasty white face, scruffy blonde hair. Bad teeth, too, but the poem hadn't mentioned that.

"Yes, miss?"

I pointed at him. "Are you Tim?"

He blinked, suspicious. "Yes, Miss."

"Tim the ostler?"

"Indeed, miss." He leaned on his shovel. "May I help you?"

I couldn't help it. I started to laugh.

"No way," I gasped, half-hysterical, "no way. This is, like, the best practical joke ever. I get it, Gemma!" I yelled out the door. "Haha, very funny. I don't know how you did it, but it better not be on YouTube tomorrow!"

Tim was staring open-mouthed while I talked to nobody. By the time I remembered he was there, I felt much better.

"Okay, you can cut the act now. Do you have any idea if she's still here or not? 'Cause if she isn't, I need my cell phone- my parents are gonna freak."

"I know not of whom you speak, miss," Tim said, sounding frightened, "there be no other maidens here save yourself."

I was approaching the end of my rope. I wanted to go home and take a damn bath, not screw around with ye olde reenactors. "I told you to cut it out."

"But miss, I haven't cut anything."

"Stop it!" I clapped my hands on my ears. "Just stop it. This can't be happening. I have to think."

Tim didn't reply, just crossed himself and mumbled something unintelligible. I could feel my face heating up.

"Don't do that," I snapped. "This is not what a possessed person looks like. This is what a really, really irritated person looks like. Memorize that, will you?"

He wasn't acting, that much was certain. But if he wasn't an actor, then that meant no one was acting, and that meant….

"Who did you say was king again?"

Tim stammered, "I didn't, Miss, but it be King George the Third who rests on the throne of England this day."

Well, that did it.

I had somehow changed centuries and geographical locations in the space of one night. The American Revolution was news, Marie Antoinette probably hadn't even been born, the ink had barely dried on the Declaration of Independence, and cell phones were a good three hundred years away from existence.

Yessir, I was in it deep.


	2. Chapter 2

That night, I lay wide awake in the bed that wasn't mine, staring at the walls I'd never seen before. The day had gone by in a whirl of chores and bad smells and the guy who said he was my father yelling at me. So far, I hadn't encountered a mother or any siblings. Probably all dead. Measles, typhoid, TB, cholera, bubonic plague, diphtheria… all but exterminated in a century or two with a vaccine or some penicillin. But here, they were still out and about, the most efficient mass murderers around. I was probably lucky to have any family at all.

I couldn't sleep, despite the fact that every inch of my body was screaming for it. My fingers twisted around and around the necklace, and I kept trying to think of some explanation for my presence here. Wormhole? No, too sci-fi. Catatonic dream state? I'd like to think I would know if I slipped into a coma. Cosmic practical joke? Strangely, that actually felt like the most likely option. One thing was for sure, I wasn't just in eighteenth-century England; I was in eighteenth-century England as imagined by Alfred Noyes two hundred years after the fact. While trying to remember the poem- after all, I'd only read it twice- I came up with a list of characters. So far, only half had come into play- me (judging by how everyone kept calling me Bess, I figured that was the part I was in), the landlord (daddy dearest), and Tim the creepy hustler/ostler/whatever. For some reason my memory was failing me, and I couldn't remember who was supposed to show up when and why until it actually happened. I was still waiting for the highwayman himself. That is, if all this was actually canon and not just my imagination going to town on itself.

As if the gods listened to my thoughts, I heard hoofbeats outside.

A gate creaked. I sat up. Silence. Then, a few quick raps on the shutters.

_But all was locked and barred, _I thought, heart pounding.

Still not used to the drafty room, I picked up my dressing gown and swung off the bed. The tapping stopped. I listened harder. Silence again.

Then, someone began to whistle.

I'd never heard anyone whistle a tune before, and it came up through the shutters like a ghost, hollow and muffled in the night air. I got up so fast I almost tripped on my stupid long nightgown and ran to the window, tearing at the latch until it came open.

The first thing I saw was the sky, clear and bright and littered with more stars than I thought existed. No other light except a full moon shone in the distance, and only the faint interruption of blowing treetops blocked it out. The whistling stopped, and I looked down.

And blinked.

And stared.

"Oh, my God," I said.

He might have stepped right out of the pages of my evil English teacher's textbook. Holding the reins of a black stallion, the highwayman was dressed just like the poem said in a red velvet coat, shining black boots, a lace cravat- oh my God a _cravat- _and I could see he wore his dark hair long, tied back in a ponytail under a tricornered hat. He whisked it off to look at me.

And that was when I realized there were some things the poem hadn't mentioned.

In the wash of moonlight, he watched me, his face so young and flawless and intense it might have been cut out from a movie poster. And while I usually don't like clichés, this one was true; when he looked at me, his eyes smoldered like an iron brand, alive with a hunger I had never seen before in any human face.

Whoever this guy was, he wanted me bad. And that suited me just fine.

"Bess." He breathed the word like a promise, and my skin prickled. "Did I wake you?"

I worked to find my voice. "Well, yeah, sort of. But it's no big deal or-"

"Shh." He held a finger to his lips. "You mustn't rouse your father."

"Oh. Right." I lowered my voice until I sounded like I had bronchitis.

The highwayman shot me a fox's smile. He wasn't much older than I was, but judging by the weapons belt strapped to his waist- complete with pistols and an honest-to-God sword- he obviously had a lot more to worry about than the occasional bad grade in geometry.

"You're wearing my gift," he said with pride, gesturing at the neck of my gown. My hand jumped to the spot, felt the necklace there. Had he, not Gemma, given this to me in fantasy land? He laughed softly.

"The gypsy lass swore it brought luck. Have you had any fair fortune since we last met?" he asked.

"You could say that." Then, I frowned. "Wait. Did you steal this?"

There was a long silence, where he just watched me like I was a big, juicy T-bone and he was starving to death. "My lady, I could nary rob an infant with you to distract me."

I felt myself sweating and tugged at my collar.

"Right. Sooo," I said. "What's up?"

He shook himself and replied, "There is a prize on the road tonight, enough gold to keep you in finery for a hundred lifetimes." He reached a hand towards me, as if he were trying to catch the moon. "My fair Bess… I shall come for you before morning, if all goes well. Will you wait for me?"

Uh-oh. I remembered this part. _Look for me by moonlight._ "And what if all goes not well?"

For the first time, a shadow crossed his face. His hand moved instinctively to the butt of his gun. "I cannot say, my love. If they press me sharply, and harry me through the day…."

He was silent for a moment. Then, fresh determination came over him, and he looked up sharply. "Then wait for me by moonlight, Bess. As always."

I felt a thrill all the way down my back. I couldn't believe this- a guy who looked like him, with a smile like that, was actually saying those words to little, plain Liz, who'd never even been properly kissed. I wished time would freeze, that I could float down from the window and see him up close, just to make sure he was real and not just some wonderful dream.

"But I shall surely perish," he said playfully, "without a kiss from my bonny sweetheart."

_Well, if you insist._

He rose in his saddle, reached again for me until the muscles in his shoulders bunched under the strain. I leaned out as far as I could without killing myself, straining my fingers until they just brushed his, intangible as moth wings. Damnit! Why couldn't my room have been on the ground floor?

A thought occurred to me. What would Bess do? I reached around the back of my head, felt the red ribbon around the end of my braid. I yanked it out and hastily undid the plaits, until my hair cascaded past my waist, behaving much better than it ever had in modern times. I leaned out again so it spilled across my shoulder, shining black and white and silver. With the reverence of a jeweler who'd just been handed the Hope diamond, he twirled my hair in his fingers and kissed it, over and over again.

Color high in his cheeks, a look of giddy joy on his face, he swept his hat onto his head.

"I'll come to you by moonlight," he cried, no longer caring who he woke, "though Hell should bar the way!"

And he tugged at the reins, his horse rearing against the sky, and galloped off to the west.

I watched until he was no more than a swiftly moving dot on the ribbon of highway, flashing in and out of sight behind the trees and endless, rolling moor. I felt wobbly and light, made of Jell-o, and sank to the floor under my window. My hands spun the ends of my hair where he had kissed it, and I wondered what his lips would taste like on mine.

Outside, I heard a creak like a rusty hinge, someone trying to close a door so no one would hear. I considered getting up to see who it was, but decided against it. Who cared who else was out? My head was still fizzing.

"Wow," I said to the empty room. "Wow."

#

I woke up in a lovestruck fog and stayed that way all morning. Mr. Dad eventually got tired of yelling at me to find my brain and keep up with my chores, and just shook his head and tossed down another gallon of booze whenever I hummed to myself at the washtub or grinned at my cross-stitching. Yes, inexplicably, I had learned how to cross-stitch overnight. Don't tell my mom.

Today's gown- evergreen with a lacey petticoat- didn't bother me half as much as yesterday. I thought about his smile, his hands, his lean shape, the way his eyes didn't look anywhere but at me. What was his name? I wondered, poking myself with my needle for the umpteenth time. Where was he born and when? Did he have brothers and sisters? Were they all as gorgeous as him? Was his hair really as soft as it looked? How had I met him? Why did he love me so much? Hannah laughed at my space-cadet stare and yammered about a patron she figured was the object of my affection.

But as the day wore on and I had less and less to do, my thoughts returned to the situation at hand. Sure, the highwayman was desperately cute and in love with me, but I didn't know him, and I couldn't exactly fall in love with someone I didn't know. He loved Bess, not Liz. I was a lot of things, but fictional was not among them. And I wanted to go home and hug my dog and my best friend, right after I flushed the toilet a couple dozen times and shaved my legs until they were raw as peeled carrots. I had to get home, and seeing as I hadn't woken up in my own bed this morning, things weren't looking too good for change. Maybe I had to live out the entire poem before I got to go home. From what I remembered, the poem didn't exactly have the happiest of endings. However I cut it, things did not bode well for anyone involved.

In any case, all I could do was wait for tonight and see what happened. The little I had paid attention to in English class told me that I was leaving Act I, and Act II was where things started getting hairy. All day, in the back of my mind, I was waiting for something unnamable and terrible to happen, but by the time sunset rolled around (apparently clocks were on the list of things they didn't have in the 1700's) I had given up. Maybe if I couldn't remember how the poem ended, nothing bad would happen.

Of course, I should have known better.

While I was helping Hannah and Maggie, the other barmaid, swab out the tankards, the door of the inn banged open. My pulse froze when I saw them stumble in, jostling and laughing, their muskets propped on their crimson shoulders. The stanzas rocketed back into my head, ringing like an alarm; _a red-coat troop came marching-marching-marching…._

They looked exactly like the history books had said, with their tricornered hats and tomato-red felt jackets, black boots dusty from the road. I counted five, all bigger and drunker than I could handle. There were no other customers and Mr. Dad was in a drunken stupor upstairs, useless to everyone. Maggie, sensing my fear, grabbed my arm.

"Evening, gentlemen," Hannah said cordially, cleaning another tankard. "How may I be of service?"

The one who appeared to be in charge, a guy with no neck and a face full of zits, slammed a fist on the bar. A few coins rolled onto the floor. "Your finest ale, madam," he said, "and we dislike being kept waiting."

Hannah scowled, but collected the money and bustled off to the tap. I kept my head down, trying to hide behind Maggie in case they recognized me. Only then did I remember I hadn't seen Tim all day. What had he done in the poem? I tried to remember. It was something important, I was sure. But what the hell was it?

Lips pursed, Hannah slid the tankards down the bar to her customers. They polished them off in record time, and over the course of half an hour, Hannah refilled them again and again. They talked a little, and I tried to listen in; mostly about the colonists and the King, but a little about an Earl who had been robbed east of here, and the brigand they said fought like the Devil himself. I hoped that I was wrong, that they hadn't come for me. But as it turned out, it was a vain hope. No shock there.

After downing number five, Zitface beckoned Hannah over. "I say," he slurred, "you look like a knowledgeable woman."

His companions snickered. Hannah said nothing, but looked nervous.

"So if you would be so kind as to direct us to the landlord's brat; a maid called Bess, I believe. You see, we have a most urgent appointment with her. And as I said before-" he grinned. More bad teeth. "-we don't enjoy being kept waiting."

"Oh, her?" Hannah did not meet his eyes. "Why, she eloped months ago with the stablehand. Hadn't seen her since."

Zitface stuck out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout. His companions glanced at each other uncertain.

He tutted. "What a pity. My eyes must not be what they were," he said, "since if I am not mistaken, she's standing right over there."

Hannah and Maggie wasted no time. With an elbow, Hannah knocked the half-filled tankard into Zitface's lap. He shot up, cursing. While they were distracted, Maggie snatched my hand and dragged me up the stairs.

"We'll wake your father," she huffed, "lock yourself in your room, and don't come out 'til I tell you to."

"You'll do no such thing."

A powerful arm knocked me backwards into the wall. I heard Maggie shriek, although it was quickly muffled. Someone hooked my elbows and clapped a hand over my mouth.

Zitface glared down at Maggie, his trousers still soggy. "Put her in the kitchen with the other one," he said, "and keep an eye on them- we don't want them waking the house with their caterwauling."

He directed his attention to me, and I found myself shrinking away from his horrible, leering face. "Oh, not to fear, my good girl," said Zitface. "I haven't forgotten you."


	3. Chapter 3

Well, I'd done what Maggie said and locked myself in my room. Not that it was voluntary, but I did it.

I was tied to the foot of the bed, hands roped to my ankles, mouth stuffed with a greasy kitchen rag. They sat around my window- which I had a direct view out of- laughing and drinking and occasionally wandering over to play with my hair or the hem of my gown. Centuries came and went, sitting there, watching the swath of highway. It was the purest form of torture, rendered helpless while the agony of the inevitable carved away at me like an ant at an insect husk. That was the way he would ride, over the crest of the hill, a shadow among shadows. Coming for me.

Somewhere in between, one of the redcoats had the bright idea of propping me up with a musket, the barrel locked under my collarbone. Zitface laughed and said, "Now keep good watch. One cannot hope to catch a fox without his vixen in the trap."

Then, he leaned over and kissed my forehead, so that I could smell his breath. It reeked like gingivitis and booze, and if it hadn't been for the gag, I would have puked on him.

I had remembered too late what Tim had done. How much did he get for turning him in? I wondered bitterly. It was him I heard last night, closing the gate. Why didn't I think of it sooner? Tears ran down into my gag. I read the poem, I should have known… what was I thinking? The highwayman was on his way, riding to his death, and it was all my fault.

Hours ticked by without a clock to show them. The moon rose high and cold, only just starting to wane, a headstone for a shallow grave. The redcoats sat around the bed and the window, half-drowsing, leaning on their muskets. As quietly as I could, I began to twist at the ropes. Whoever the redcoats were, they must have learned knot-tying in the Royal Navy. Each rope held fast and no amount of wriggling would loosen them. I felt hot wetness- blood or sweat, who knew which?- seeping down my wrists. But I could just touch the stock of the musket, the trigger only an inch or two out of reach. I curled over and strained, joints popping, fingers aching. If I could just reach….

_There!_

My middle finger curled around the trigger. I bit back the urge to laugh in triumph. I'd done it!

Then, I remembered something.

Something so awful and important I could not believe it had taken me this long to figure it out.

If I was Bess....

If I really was her….

Then I was going to die.

The finger I had on the trigger, the grip I had been so blindly determined to attain, was the one that would send a ball of lead tearing through flesh and bone and tissue clear through to the headboard. Like the real Bess, I would end up slumped over the musket, dead as a squashed fly and having fulfilled my purpose; to warn my love at any cost.

Only it didn't matter. The warning was useless, because the highwayman- that wild, dashing, impossibly beautiful young man who loved me more than air- was as doomed as I was. He would come back to avenge me and they would kill him as sure as anything. Apples or oranges.

I quit moving my hands, paralyzed with this realization that no matter what I did, we were both dead. We had been since 1906, when Alfred Noyes dreamed us both up. Two doomed lovers, just like Romeo and Juliet. I tried to swallow, found I couldn't. The gag expanded in my mouth and fresh tears boiled on my cheeks. In another few minutes I would hear the sound of hoofbeats on the cobblestones, watch him come up into the inn yard, and then….

My finger tensed on the trigger of the musket.

_Well, screw _that.

But if I didn't, what would happen? Would I watch them shoot him down on the dirt because I wouldn't save him? Watch him die in a pool of his own blood with the taste of his true love's betrayal on his lips? Wasn't he just going to die anyway? And what about me- would I ever just get to go home? I didn't even know his name!

I gnawed my cheek until it bled, liquid rust on my tongue. No… no, this wasn't Alfred Noyes' story any more. This was my life, my story, my highwayman. And I could still save him, and myself. If I found a way to warn him without blowing my guts out, then he would escape the redcoats, I would be all right, and that way he wouldn't die coming back to avenge me. Yeah, that could work!

Wiggling my shoulder, I tried to move the barrel so it pointed somewhere less vital. Easier said than done. My finger slipped around on the trigger. A cramp knotted my arm, and I had to stop for a moment to work it out. Just another inch or two.

Then, I heard it.

_Tlot-tlot-tlot_

Every muscle in my body tensed. I whipped around, eyeing the redcoats. They showed no signs of hearing. Another second, one more second.

_Tlot-tlot-tlot_

Geez, were they deaf? I thrashed and wriggled- the barrel was now flat against my shoulder. Another inch or two and when I pulled the trigger, it would fire harmlessly into the wall. What the redcoats would do afterwards, who knew? He would hear and be safe, and I would worry about the rest.

_Tlot-tlot-tlot, _closer and closer. Zitface stirred. He tilted his hat and glanced out the window. I froze. The musket was still propped against my shoulder, like tangible deja-vu. No time to move it now. I had no idea how many major arteries or delicate muscles were right underneath it, but that was a chance I had to take.

_Tlot-tlot-tlot. _Zitface jumped to his feet with a cry and nudged his fellows awake as I caught my first glimpse of him, riding like a mirage over the shimmering hill, drawing closer and closer. The redcoats were frantically readying their weapons, loading powder and shot. My finger hovered on the trigger, just barely enough to grip. I shut my eyes. This was going to hurt like a bitch.

_Kra-KOW!_

The shot shattered the night into a thousand pieces. If Mr. Universe had nailed me in the collarbone with a sledgehammer, it wouldn't have come close to the devastating impact that tossed me into the baseboard. My entire arm was numb and cold, and there was blood everywhere- on my gown, the bedspread, the wall. The world looked like a 3-D movie without the glasses, with two of everything in psychedelic color. The redcoats turned for a moment to trace the noise, and that moment was all it took for the highwayman to halt his ride, spur back to the west, and gallop away from what would have been the end of his young life.

One of the redcoats lowered his musket with a curse. "He's gone. There'll be no catching him now."

Zitface silenced him. "We'll flank the highways. If he dares set down these roads again, I'll have his pelt for a horse blanket."

Dizzy and sick, I couldn't resist a smile. I'd done it… I'd saved him. Take that, Mr. Noyes.

My happiness was short-lived. The redcoats, cheated of their prize, turned on me. Zitface grabbed me by the chin and slammed my head into the baseboard.

"Wretched whore," he snarled, drawing a knife, "you shan't deceive us a second time!"

_Uh-oh. _I hadn't gotten this far in my plan. My hands were still tied, and with my shoulder torn to ground beef I couldn't have escaped them anyway. He flattened the knife on my throat, drawing blood over the pounding vein in my neck. _OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod-_

The door banged open. Father barreled into the room like an ox, brandishing a musket. The redcoats panicked and scattered when he fired off a shot, despite the fact it went about a mile wide of any of them. He found me slumped over the bed and crushed me in a bear hug.

"Oh, Bess," he said, reeking of beer, "my Bess, what have they done?" He held me back, scrutinized me. "Have you been ravished?"

"N-no," I said, my teeth chattering. "B-but my arm…."

Father blinked, then looked down at the sodden tear in my shoulder. His face turned the color of Kleenex.

"Good Lord. Margaret, send for the surgeon!" He yelled down the hall at the tired barmaid in her dressing gown. "Bloody redcoats… I shall speak to the King himself for this outrage!"

I didn't hear anything after that. It sounds dumb to say, but I went into a kind of trance, where I could see faces and hear voices, but my head wouldn't put the two together. Someone with a moustache and a bag of knives, the fretful expressions of Father and the maids, the tugging of stitches and strong-smelling liquid that made me want to gag, it all swirled together in an earthtone miasma. By the time everything came together, I was in a different bed with clean sheets and a nightgown, and the sun was just a hint of red through the blinds.

I had a surge of pain when I lifted my head. My hand jumped to my forehead, then inched downwards to feel the spot where the bullet had entered. A lump of bandages greeted my fingers, and when I looked down, saw that my entire left arm was wrapped in a sling.

Falling back to the pillow, I tried to organize my thoughts. My highwayman was safe for now, just another lonely traveler paying his way with gold of dubious origin. And I wasn't dead! Score one for Liz. I didn't know if the shoulder would end up infected and I'd just write myself off anyhow, but right now, all was good in the world.

The door opened and Hannah bustled in, looking fretful.

"Oh, my poor miss Bessie," she wailed, mopping my forehead with a cool cloth. "Do you ken me? Are you in great pain?"

"Not too bad," I mumbled, brushing her hand away. I didn't need any more nursing, thank you.

Hannah wrung her hands. "I tried to stop them, miss, I did, but I couldn't- I couldn't- oh, I am a wretched woman!" She broke into huge sobs.

_Easy on the melodrama. _"It's okay, Hannah. Not your fault."

She sniffled and daubed at her eyes with the cloth. "Your father is in a right state. Keeps going on about seeing the King and having those bloody redcoats locked up. Raving mad."

"Mmph," I said, too tired to say more.

"Old Gertrude says they're still about. Nearly frightened her to death as she was coming up the east road. And did you know, Tim went into the village to fetch your physician? A good lad, that one. Though why it took him so long, I'll never know…."

I bolted upright. "What did you say?"

Hannah looked stunned. "Peace, miss. They cannot harm you here. No need to shout."

"He went to the village?" A horrible thought occurred to me. What if….

No. No, it was too crazy, too awful. But I had to know for sure. I swung out of bed, staggering a little. Hanna gave a small shriek.

"Miss! You-"

"Not now!" I snapped, and ran down the stairs. My shoulder ached with every step until I yanked the sling off in frustration and ran for the stable. Sure enough, I found Tim there, rubbing down one of the horses. He turned when I stormed in, even paler than I remembered.

"Miss? What are you doing out here? You should be in bed-"

"Don't tell me where I should be," I snarled. "You were in the village. What did you tell them there?"

"W-why, nothing, miss-"

I grabbed him by the collar. "Tim, what did you do?"

"I-" His bloodshot eyes darted around in his head, looking for an escape. "I told them you…."

"Tell me!"

"I told them you were dead," he squeaked, and screwed his eyes shut.

My jaw dropped. I couldn't believe it. If he was telling the truth, then last night would be for nothing. My highwayman would hear the rumor, wheel back in a storm of grief, and die on the lonely road at the hands of the redcoats waiting there. Just like in the poem. I went and shot myself in the goddamn arm for nothing! Anger like I had never felt burned me from the inside out. With my good hand, I made a fist and socked him right between the eyes.

He toppled backwards, clutching his nose.

I shook my hand out. "You awful, slimy little creep," I said, "I oughta rip out your skull and beat you with it."

"Beth," he said miserably, trying to stem the blood running out of his nose, "Beth, pwease, I didn't mean it. I wath juth twying to pwotect 'oo. I did it becauth I cawe about 'oo."

"Well, congratulations on giving me the perfect reason not to feel the same way," I snapped. Panicking, he grabbed the hem of my skirt.

"But Beth, I-"

I wasn't interested. Yanking my skirt away, I said, "You wanna make up for it?"

He nodded. "Good. Then you can crawl back in there and get one of those horses ready. Preferably a fast one."

And with that, I gathered my skirt and ran into the inn to find my cloak.

#

Let me make something clear; I don't know jack about horses. I can't even remember the last time I saw a real one. So, you ask, what am I doing tearing down the road in the wee hours of the morning on a horse I'd never seen up 'til a few minutes ago?

Good question.

I have no idea how women rode sidesaddle for so long. After the first fifteen minutes I gave up and swung my legs over either side, realizing if anyone came up from behind they would probably see more of a full moon than they had planned on. My shoulder throbbed with every hoofbeat until I thought it was going to fall off. I scanned the distance, trying to multitask with the reins, seeing nothing until- there! A cloud of dust rising like smoke in the distance. It was him, I knew it was. I jammed my heels into the horse's ribs, urged her on. We were still too close to the inn. If I could just reach him, stop him….

It seemed like moments before he was upon me. I opened my mouth, ready to call out. But my words fell back as he thundered past, hooves pounding the dirt road like a heartbeat. I was speechless. In his madness and rage over my death, he hadn't even seen me. My lip trembled. I slid off the horse, knowing I couldn't catch him in a million years, much less in time. What now? The rude voice in the back of my head demanded. You've lost him.

No, I haven't, I told it, and picked up a rock.

I threw it in the stallion's path with all my strength. The animal reared and pawed the ground, nearly dismounting his rider. He managed to spur it to a halt, but only just. I covered my mouth, eyes wide in terror. Bad idea.

Abandoning his mount with a curse, the highwaymen drew his sword and strode towards me. In the bloody dawn I could see his eyes were wild, his face drawn and pale.

"How dare-" he began. Then, he truly looked at me.

The rapier clattered to the broken earth.

For what felt like an age, he stared at me. Face-to-face, he was even more handsome, brimming with fire and life and love. His dark hair was stuck to the sweat on his brow, and his eyes were wide.

"Bess." Tentatively, he reached out a hand. I laced my fingers around his. "How…."

"It doesn't matter," I said, smiling. "I'm here, aren't I?"

His expression changed from fear to elation. Laughing, he pulled me to him. "Indeed you are."

He kissed me then, long and dizzying in the garnet light of sunrise, my fear and pain and misery all swirling away like early morning mist. I could almost taste the fire that burned behind his eyes, so different from me. The yin to Liz's yang. Perfect.

Behind us, something rustled. We broke apart, looking for the source of the noise. Found it in the shape of Zitface- the redcoat who had run from the inn hours before. Standing in the dusty rode with his musket at the ready.

My heart made a run for my throat. _No!_

Blood pounding in my ears, I cast around. There was no sign of any of the others. Where had they gone?

"I owe you thanks, my dear," said Zitface, cheerful as ever. "My men were waiting for him to the east. But this way, I have the pleasure of killing him all to myself."

My highwayman stepped in front of me, pistol in hand. "Run, Bess," he said, "go back to the inn."

"Fat chance," I hissed. Zitface was drawing back his flint.

"Bess, please," he said, fear in his voice, "I won't have your death on my hands twice."

"I love you," I said. It was more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything else, but it softened him.

He said gently, "and I you."

Zitface rolled his eyes. "If I wanted theatrics," he said, "I would attend the opera."

He raised his musket at the same moment the highwayman raised his, and two shots split the crisp morning air, both of them meeting their mark.

#

Zitface dropped like a penny to the ground, an extra-large hole in his forehead. My highwayman followed, shot through the chest. Musket wounds were not like normal bullet wounds. They took a lot more with them on the way out.

I don't remember falling, but I must have, because in a moment I was next to him, his head in my lap. The face I had seen beneath my window only two nights ago was blue-white as the moonlight he had been swathed in. When he curled his hand around mine, it felt cold and weak.

_Down like a dog on the highway._

"They told me…" he drew a breath, and I could hear the blood pooling in his throat. "Told me you had been murdered in the night. I came to take revenge…."

"Shh," I said, tearing off my dressing gown to cover the wound in his chest, "we'll fix you up, don't worry. Just… just let me think."

He only smiled, kissed my hand. "No, my love. Knowing you are alive and whole… I shall go to my grave in peace."

"No, you won't," I said, "shut up." Panic took hold of me- the dressing gown was drenched in blood, as was the hem of my nightdress. He started to tremble… soon he would pass out from shock, and there would be no saving him. I had to do something, I had to!

"Help!" I screamed down the road. "Help me, somebody! Help me!"

I felt his hand squeeze mine, and I knew right then that this was one time when there was truly nothing I could do. No ambulance, no 911, no CPR. Antibiotics, IVs and anesthesia were two hundred years away, and a real, live person was dying right now with no one to come and help him. I wanted to cry, found I couldn't. I became a living heartbeat, watching his life run out in one long crimson stain.

"Tell me your name," I said. I don't know why I asked- it just felt right.

He tried to laugh, ended with a ragged cough. "My sweet Bess," he said, "you know my name."

"Pretend I don't," I insisted, brushing his dark hair from his forehead.

He touched my cheek. I could see the light in his eyes flicker like a candle running out of wick.

"The day you find yourself before the Lord," he said, "tell him your Nathaniel is there waiting for you."

And that was it. Like the ending of a sad movie. But in the movies, you don't see the blood soaking your hands, don't hear breath and heartbeat silenced, don't feel the strong young body go limp in your arms, don't smell death in the air like a rotten apple. I couldn't move. The shock came like a wall of sound and ice, flowing over me in waves. The road was so quiet, so quiet.

Distantly, I heard running footsteps. Father and Tim skidded to a halt a few feet away, both out of breath. I did not acknowledge them.

Father grabbed my good arm and tried to pull me away. "Bess, what have you done? Who is this? By God, wounded or not, I shall beat you within an inch of your life!"

I yanked my arm away and clung tighter to Nathaniel's body, shaking my head. Father pulled his hand back and slapped me hard across the face. In the haze of bright stars, he grabbed me by the hair and pulled.

"No!" I screamed, thrashing at them both, "No! No!"

I heaved and sobbed like a toddler, clawing at the dirt to get back to him. God knows how I must have looked, gown torn and wrinkled, covered in blood, hair in a tangle and eyes bloodshot. But I didn't care. I just wanted to go to him, be with him. The only boy who ever loved me, and I would never have the chance to find out if I loved him back. It wasn't fair!

"Let go," I wailed, "please, let go-"

Father slapped me again, and this time I felt a tooth come loose. My head tingled and swam. Blackness took up the corners of my eyes. I couldn't think, couldn't feel. My eyes fluttered shut, and I did nothing to stop the sleep tugging at me like a hangman's noose. I was too drained, too tired. The world careened towards a point in the distance, and went out.

#

I woke up in my own bed that morning, as if the two nights I had spent in the world of the highwayman had never occurred. The sun reached out onto my purple sponge-paint wall, my own messy desk, my electric lamp, my daisy-shaped throw rug. I wore my own Powerpuff Girl jammies that were older than the Rocky Mountains, and next door was my own running tap and flush toilet and shower stall, complete with rubber-ducky curtain, real soap and fresh razor blades. No melted candles or arsenic hair powder or itchy stockings.

So why did I feel like I was missing a limb?

When I came downstairs, my dad- my own skinny, nerdy dad- was in the kitchen making pancakes, watching the griddle and the History Channel at the same time.

I rubbed my eyes. "Where's mom?"

"Sleeping," dad said cheerfully, "bad migraine last night. Or so she says."

He winked at me, and I made a face. "Dad! Gross!"

After collecting my pancakes, I sat down at the kitchen table, half-watching the TV. I felt different, bigger. Like I was more of myself. My hand went to my hair, shorter now, and then to my necklace. I craned my neck to get a better look at it, and saw that the bright blue stone had faded, the luminosity that had attracted me at first dwindled until it was just an ordinary blue rock, nothing special. Just like that.

Just like me.

Before I could stop it, a sob escaped me. Dad looked over his shoulder.

"You all right, honey?"

"Allergies," I said with a sniff. All my fantasies about disposable razors and flush toilets were gone. I longed to have those two days back again, even the worst parts. I could still sense his blood on my hands and his kiss on my lips. To feel something so powerful only to have it torn away in favor of the ordinary… well, it was almost too much.

"You conked out on the table last night," he said. "Had to carry you upstairs. When did my baby girl get so darn heavy?"

"When I hit puberty, Dad."

I finished my pancakes before Dad could notice my mood, and wandered upstairs. I looked back once more at the TV, saw that the History Channel documentary was all about the revolutionary war, complete with scowling images of King George and another famous George, also destined to preside over a country. Destined… funny word. Smiling, I went back to my room.

Did I belong there with him? If I'd done something differently, would I still be there? Would he still be alive? Had he ever truly been alive? All I had to do was touch my necklace, feel the half-remembered ache in my shoulder to know that yes, it had been real in one form or another. I've had lots of dreams, mostly about failing tests or sprouting antlers and stuff. This was way too vivid and coherent to be some figment of my unconscious mind. But if it wasn't a dream, then what had happened to me?

My English book was on my desk. I picked it up, flipped to page 451. God knows what I expected to see- a note from the beyond?- but all I found were words and a chip of pink nail polish. And, I realized, I still had my twenty page assignment to do before Wednesday. At least nasty old Ms. Mace would have to give me points for historical accuracy.

The book snapped shut under my hands. Maybe it didn't matter if it was real. It was like quarks- if you couldn't prove they existed, then how could you disprove it?

When I picked up my cell, I saw I had two missed calls and a text, all from Gemma. She had left a frantic voicemail telling me about this guy in her theater club who totally had a crush on me, and he was like, the cutest guy I would ever meet, ever, and how if I didn't hook up with him I was completely insane. I hung up halfway through, and fell back onto my bed. Completely insane was right. I doubted any idle high school boy could ever love me half as well as him. For that, I would have to wait.

Because when my time is up, however short or long it might be, I know whose name I'm going to ask for.


End file.
